Page 66 of Buried Beneath Sin

“Look at me.”

Beatrix’s eyelids crack open. I smile at her obedience. I lean down and kiss the duct tape between us as I rock my hips into her body. My thrusting becomes more demanding as I feel Beatrix's body begin to clamp tighter around me. Her stifled moans and groans are the soundtrack to this moment between us.

My lips leave her face. They trail down her neck, where they leave light kisses along her collarbones. Unable to resist, I capture a perky little nipple and suck. Beatrix's sharp intake of air through her nose and the clenching of her pussy tells me she likes this. I suck harder, teasing her tightening nipple with my tongue as I do.

Suddenly, her body stiffens again. Her pussy squeezes around me, dragging me over the edge with her with a stunning force. My snarl gets caught up between her breasts as I bury my face between them. As her release gushes around my cock, my own shoots up inside of her. I can’t stop grinding as I cum almost violently into her body. My heart races and my body goes slick from sweat. Fuck, she feels so damn good!

When I’m completely spent, I slip out of my pet.

I take advantage of her closed eyes and reach forward to rip the tape from her mouth. Beatrix hisses before she turns her head and spits out her panties. I grab them up, and, as I pull out of her, I use them to clean my softening dick.

Beatrix’s head flops to one side so that she can look at me. Her tears have slowed but haven’t stopped. I watch as one slides down the side of her face and drops away to the comforter on the bed.

“Thank you,” she rasps out softly.

I scowl down at her, not sure what the gratitude is for.

“For your dick,” she explains, the smallest of smiles pulling at her lips. “Sir.”

Amusement and satisfaction war in my gut, both fun and unexpected feelings. As promised, I was not gentle in my treatment of my pet. Yet here she is, grateful for me.

“You're welcome, Little Viper,” I growl. My gaze travels down her body slowly. There’s a flush beneath her brown skin that makes her look like she’s glowing. Or maybe that’s her sweat catching in the light. Her legs are sticky with my cum and herrelease, the perfect combination. All she needs is a little blood splatter and she would look like a goddess.

Beatrix tugs at the zip ties around her wrist. “Are you going to untie me now?”

“No.” I know I just promised that I’m not a cuddler, that she should look to my brother for that shit, but she looks too damn good not to keep around for the night. “Now roll over and go to sleep. You’re staying in here tonight.”

27

BEATRIX

“Yes, I understand,” I reply to the man on the other end of the line. “But no, I will not put down your cat. If Mitten’s were already gone then?—”

“But she won't be able to move on without Mittens! She'll haunt me!”

Bracing my hands on the edge of the embalming table, I squeeze my eyes. The deceased laying on said table doesn’t complain that I’ve stopped working. I appreciate it because it takes a second to gather the patience I need to handle this conversation.

“Mr. Matthews, I'm pretty sure your wife’s ghost would be more upset knowing you killed her cat rather than just taking care of it.”

“But her ghost?—”

As my client talks, one of the double doors to the preparation room opens. The movement causes me to flinch hard in surprise.Noone comes in here this time in the morning unless it’s to fight. My mind races at the same time. What will it be this morning? A barrage of hateful drunken or drug-induced threats and insults, or will I get hit with a flying shoe?

My flinch is uncalled for, as are the thoughts that came with it.

The person who walks into the room, who chuckles at my reaction, is neither Patrick nor my mother. But itisa Hunt. Is this…Sagan? No, wait, this is Thatcher. The smile clinging to his mouth and the way his hair is slicked back, out of his face, tells me who it is faster than a name tag would. Dressed in a tailored navy-blue button up, freshly ironed and pressed, with a maroon tie and black tailored pants—he looks like he could be a model in a casket magazine.

I let out a long sigh of relief that it’s him and not his father. Despite seeing their bodies rolled out of the house on a gurney, hosting their service yesterday, and brushing out their ashes from the cremation chamber this morning—mixed with Sebastian’s—apparently my body still thinks my stepfather and Mom are still around to torment me.

Ignoring Thatcher, I straighten and walk around the table while I turn my attention back to my potential client on the phone.

“I don’t have it in me to kill your cat, Mr. Matthews. Your wife might end up hauntingmeif I did that. But what I can do is help you find the perfect urn for her.” My gloves come off with a snap. I drop them next to the embalming machine with a sigh. “When would you like to come in? Or, if you'd like, I could email you a link with all the options we have available.”

Thatcher leans up against the wall beside the doors, crossing his arms over his chest as he tracks my progression over to the old desk in the far corner of the room. There, my laptop and notebook wait for me. Though I pay him no attention, I can’t help but feel his eyes caressing me. His attention brings a bodily response I can’t control. Beneath my smock and blouse, my nipples harden and a shiver of desire cause bumps to race down my covered arms.

After last night with his brother, which has left me sore and uncomfortable, I can’t begin to understand this reaction. I should be recoiling from even the thought of being touched by anyone.

“I'm getting that damn cat put down, and it’s going in the jar with my wife, so let’s find one big enough to accommodate both of them,” Mr. Matthews snaps, bringing my thoughts back to my current client.

---